


Trained to Come When He's Called

by Morwynn



Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Doggy Style, F/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 17:09:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14241948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morwynn/pseuds/Morwynn
Summary: During Book 3, Perrin chafes at Moiraine's need to be in complete control of their search for Rand.  In his dreams, he tries to turn the tables on her, but even in his dreams she gets what she wants.





	Trained to Come When He's Called

Perrin sighed gratefully as he settled into his blankets by the fire at last after a long day’s ride. Tired as he was, he could not seem to become sleepy, though. Jarra and Noam lay leagues behind them, but they still loomed at the forefront of his thoughts. Fitfully, he turned his back to the others. Lan kept watch at the edge of the flickering firelight, his shifting cloak at once one with the night shadows and with the orange flames. Loial appeared as a great mound on the other side of their small campsite. And Moiraine already dozed off beside Lan. She lay on her side, a dark strand of hair falling sinuously across her cheek, her pale skin lightly flushed from where she faced the fire. 

The sight of her so peaceful had only filled Perrin with anger, the heat of the powerful emotion shocking even himself. She held him in a vice grip, sure as metal tongs, and tried to shape him like smelted iron to her will. It wouldn’t work. He refused to let it work. He took some deep breaths to calm himself for sleep, resolving to continue to assert himself tomorrow and for the duration of the journey. He would stay with her until they found Rand; then he would be free of her for good. Clutching onto those thoughts, he drifted to sleep.

Moiraine was waiting for him in his dreams, standing in their campsite, in her usual dress, with her usual glare, and her usual frosty beauty. He had been questioning her again and she appreciated it no more in his dream than awake. 

“Do not press me further than I think proper, boy,” she told him coldly, as she had more and more often of late, as he grew bolder and questioned her further. Petite as she was, her presence always seemed to fill the space, seemed to make her tower over other men, even the Ogier. But her dominating presence could not change the fact that at the end of the day, she was a slight slip of a woman, barely reaching his shoulder, and he was an imposing man, not a boy as she said, roped with muscle hard-wrought from backbreaking work in Master Luhhan’s forge, with hair on his chest if not quite so much on his chin. He could wrap his broad hands around her waist; he could toss her to the ground like a rag doll. He could do whatever he wanted to her and, since it was a dream, she could not channel the One Power to stop him. 

“I’ll press you as far as I like,” he growled, and in one quick lunge, he closed the space between them, forcing her to lift her chin high to meet his eyes. She opened her mouth to ask him just what he thought he was doing, but in an instant, he roughly grabbed the neck of her dark blue silk riding dress in two strong hands and ripped. Fine quality as it was, in the dense signature weave of Domani artisans, the silken fabric gave way totally in his grip, shredding down her front until the ruined garment fell away from her in tatters. She stood before him in nothing but her shift, plain but well-made in light blue, revealing more of her figure than even her well-cut dresses did. _Is_ everything _she owns blue?_ Perrin wondered absently through his rage. He wanted to see fear in her dark eyes, wanted to see her shrink from him, but instead, she met his burning gaze just as hotly, defiant and ready to engage. 

“I did not say how far I thought was proper,” she retorted, and Perrin’s hands paused where they had moved on to the neckline of her shift. It was not the response he had been expecting, hoping for. He wanted to show her she was not as in control as she believed, that he would be calling some of the shots from now on. No matter, this was only the first step; he had plenty more in store for her to put her properly in her place before the night was through. 

“I don’t care how far you think is proper,” he spat, and ripped the delicate shift as brutally as he had the gown before it. Thin and fine, the halves of what remained of her shift fluttered to the ground around her, leaving her completely exposed in the firelight. It still failed to lessen her bearing. Completely naked, she stood before him, still every inch a queen before her subject, the firelight dancing on her porcelain skin, the play of shadow and light enhancing a lithe body toned from decades in the saddle and accustomed to hard travel. Dark hair flowed in waves over her full breasts, failing to conceal nipples that hardened despite the heat of the campfire. 

Perrin hesitated a split second. He was not very experienced with girls his age, let alone full-grown women, and out of long habit he took such care not to hurt others that his current course of action felt foreign, however desirable it also felt at the moment. But then he thought of how she had ripped him and his friends from their homes, dug hooks into them and attached her strings, then continued to try to make them dance for her. He thought of her in the archive, reading manuscripts about wolves and men with golden eyes, telling him what she wished and concealing things he could only imagine. About his life, about his death. Rage boiled fresh in his chest. She deserved this. She needed this reminder. 

He roughly took a handful of her chestnut hair, twisting his fingers in it until he pulled at the roots, forcing her head back. She lifted her large almond eyes to meet his, topaz meeting gold, both burning darkly in the light of the fire. 

“I will tell you what’s proper,” he growled, and forced her to her knees with the hand in her hair. Her eyes stared a challenge into his even as she sank down, the very act of meeting his golden eyes in a steady gaze asserting dominance over him, shining a light on his deepest insecurity. He was sick of it. With a frustrated grunt, he grabbed her shoulders and pushed her down as he turned her, forcing her to catch herself on her palms as she fell forward, her face almost hitting the dirt ground. She was exactly where he wanted her, on all fours, facing away from him. He sank to the ground behind her and moved over her before she could move away. His massive form enveloped her slender one, and he wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her into him, her soft skin mashed against his rough woolen clothes. 

“This is what’s proper,” he growled into her hair, his lips grazing her ear. Her breath caught. Keeping one arm around her waist, he unbuckled his belt with the other. “This is what you deserve. Keep your face in the dirt. This is where you belong.”

She didn’t move. His belt undone, his hand quickly undid the laces of his pants, his hard cock springing out of the slit in his smallclothes. With that business finished, he reached again to entwine the hair at the nape of her neck in his rough hand, forcing her head back down to rest on her forearm, her other hand braced on the ground by her face. On her knees, her rounded posterior lifted into the air, waiting for him. He body was tense, pushing against him as he manipulated her limbs, but she did not put up a fight, although her breath quickened and filled his ears. The scent of her threatened to overwhelm him. Despite a day’s riding, the smell of her rose soap sweetly enticed him, and the smell of her arousal, earthy and sharp, threatened to drive him mad. But he could not let her overwhelm him, senses, body, or mind. The point was to overwhelm her. He had been hoping for a fight. He would find a way to make her resist. He wanted her to fight him so that it would feel so good when he won. 

His arm retreated from her waist to grip his cock, aching, throbbing hard, and proportional to his massive, manly body. He pressed the tip of it to her opening, which was already dripping in anticipation of him. Still not what he expected, but still not a problem. He would give her a pounding that would put her in her place. He would make her beg for him to do nothing more than ask her questions from now on. 

He thrust his dick all the way inside her in one long stroke, not caring if she were wet and ready-- even though she was clearly both. In one second, he buried himself inside her to the hilt. She was tight, her muscled walls clenching around him, and she was hot, and slick. _Light._ It was almost enough to overwhelm him. Her deep moan filled his ears, more rich and expressive than she had ever been in regular communication. Her left hand, palm in the dirt, constricted in pleasure, her nails leaving little trenches of dust, her golden snake ring glinting as if to taunt him. 

“This is what you deserve,” he repeated, his voice husky as he began thrusting in and out of her. He kept his hand in her hair, entwined fingers holding her head down, and he moved his other hand to her hip, bracing himself to pound her however felt best to his cock. She would just have to take it because he was not about to let her up any time soon. He drove himself all the way into her, as deep as he could flex his hips, and slid almost all the way out, only to drive himself deeply back in. The hand on her hip gave him leverage, his short nails digging into her flesh where he gripped her, occasionally smacking or kneading her ass until it turned pink. 

Her panting gasps titillated him, her breaths coming in time with his thrusting, sometimes becoming fully vocalized moans that harmonized with his. 

“Yes,” she moaned, more air than word, distorted as he thudded roughly into her. “Yes, tell me what I deserve. What do I deserve…” 

“This,” he snarled, pulling her hips up hard with his hand, driving his thick cock so deep inside her that his flexed hips met hers. She wriggled against him, quivering without actually protesting. He wanted to subjugate her, to frighten her. But if anything, she still seemed eager. He would just have to press on. 

“Yes,” she groaned again as he made short strokes deep inside, grinding his hips in circles and back and forth. “Yes, fuck me like an alpha,” she hissed between pants, clenching around him and pressing her hips against his to take all of him, savor him. 

Perrin froze. He wanted to show her that he could stand up for himself, but she had--intentionally or not-- put his back up yet again, even when he had her forced onto her knees and taking it from him. He released his hand from her hair, moving it to clutch at her throat, pulling her up so that her back contorted into a steep arch, pressed against his chest, her flesh slick with a sheen of perspiration against his coarse shirt. Still buried inside her, Perrin moved nothing but his lips, bared in a rictus against her ear as his deep voice rumbled threateningly, “What did you say?” 

Upright on her knees, Moiraine’s flushed breasts heaved up and down as she continued to pant with excitement. “I said, ‘fuck me like an alpha,’” she repeated, spitting the words out deliberately and clearly through her heavy breaths, knowing exactly what she was doing. 

Perrin had not even considered their position, but her words dragged visions and memories of the Wolf Dream into his unwilling consciousness. On all fours, mounting her from behind, realization crashed down on Perrin that as much as he thought he was fleeing the wolf part of him and reasserting some control over his life, he had only been embracing it all along so far tonight. And worse, Moiraine had put it together while he had not even thought of it. _Burn her!_ Even when he was trying to be in control, even when he had her pinned, face down in the dirt, helplessly taking his cock, she was still controlling him. He had to try a different tack. He had to show her he would take control. Of his life, of her. He would dance to her strings no more. 

With a frustrated bark of a yell, Perrin slid out of her and pushed her back down to the ground, then flipped her over onto her back as easily as if she were an empty saddlebag. Before she had time to think, to budge, he gripped his large hands on her inner thighs, bruising tight, and wrenched them wide open like he was opening curtains. Still on his knees, he slid forward and sat down on his heels, planting his hips and thighs so close against hers that she was trapped there, at least long enough for him to shimmy his pants and smallclothes down to his thighs and whisk his shirt off over his head. 

Moiraine’s eyes, dark and gleaming in the dim firelight, roved his body hungrily, with that infamous weighing look. They took in his broad, muscled shoulders, his swarthy skin glistening with sweat in the moonlight, the light coat of dark, softly curling hair covering his toned, bulging pecs, leaving a thin, dark trail more obvious than Rand’s trail to Tear down to his bulging member. For an instant, Perrin hoped she liked what she saw before he remembered that the point was that he was taking her. Dimly, he was aware of Lan regarding them neutrally from across the fire. What was Lan doing in his dream? He tried to forget it and focus on the task at hand. 

“I’ll fuck you however I want,” he snarled, slamming his cock into her again, hitting new and interesting spots in the new angle, his shaggy curls swaying in time to his thrusts. To drive his point home, he brought his right hand up to grab her throat, resting it there and gripping the slender column of her neck lightly, for now, but as a reminder that he could rip it out--no, not that, never that-- as a reminder that he could squeeze harder at any time, that he was in charge of this encounter. She brought her hands up to his wrist, her slender fingers unable to close around his thick forearm, wrapping around him not to try to pull him away but to hold him there. 

He put his other hand low on her stomach, pressing her abdominal muscles down onto his cock inside her, her legs still open wide for him. Her breasts bounced in time to his rhythm, moderate and steady as he savored the honeyed feel of her around him, the lush sight of her before him. Usually so prim and guarded, she was well and truly laid open to him now, unselfconscious with abandon, moaning richly and writhing her back and hips in perfect time with him. Frankly, too in time with him. He wanted to keep her unbalanced, unable to predict what he would do next, helpless but to follow where he led. He would have to start thrusting even harder, both to show her who was leading and because the fire in the pit of his stomach was building and increasingly demanding it. 

“Fuck me harder,” Moiraine commanded in a languorous moan, “Harder, faster, Perrin, I’m so close…” 

She tightened her grip on his wrist in her small hands and bucked her hips against his, her full lips parted to breathe quickly. Her eyes had been squeezed shut, her dark lashes pressed to her pale cheeks, but she opened those big eyes slowly to gaze back into his, communicating her need to him even more deeply than her words. 

He tightened his grip on her throat in frustration but she only arched her back in sensuous pleasure in reply. Was there nothing he could do to put her on edge, even a little? He quit caring--well, he started to care a little less-- and began thrusting deep and fast inside her, as his cock was more and more insistently demanding him to do. It was becoming harder to hold up his own weight, so he sank on top of her, letting go of her throat and covering her body completely with his, resting the weight of his body on his forearms and resting his head close to hers, his heavily-muscled form pressing her slender one into the ground. 

“Oh, yes,” she breathed, wrapping her thighs around him and snaking her arms up his back, “let me at these shoulders…” 

She grazed her teeth along his right shoulder where it joined his neck, suddenly biting him there as she sank her nails into the rockhard muscle of his upper back as if he were the first meal she had seen in days. In spite of himself, Perrin groaned deeply into her hair, unexpectedly hurled forward toward his climax at the feel of her teeth, tongue, and nails working on him, of her strong thighs gripping him. _Who’s in control now?_ he wondered dimly as the sounds, scents, and sensations of her approaching completion overwhelmed him and forced him toward his own. 

Her sharp nails raked down his back, which rippled with toned muscle as he flexed and rode her. Leaving ten jagged, red trails in their wake, her hands made their way all the way down his form until they gripped his pert rear, like two tawny foothills of the Mountains of Mist. She pressed rhythmically into his bum, encouraging him into a pace that was exactly what she wanted to finish, as she thrashed about in time with her own tempo. He fell in with the suggestions her hands and hips were making, his cock overtaken with her ministrations and the intoxicating sounds she was making right in his ear. Light, the scent of her, the overpowering scent of roses and her signature, human scent and the hot, piquant scent of her arousal filled his mind, shutting off all coherent thought as desire mounted to a fever pitch in his cock…

Suddenly she was clenching tighter than ever around him, firm and pulsing as she cried out, her breasts thrusting into his chest and her fingers embedded in his ass, demanding he stay as deep inside her as he could get as her hips swirled around him madly. As she tumbled over the edge, it pushed him forward, and he powerlessly followed behind her, the orgasm ripped from his cock by her dizzying hip movements and her sensual, breathy moans. He came forcefully, deep inside her, on the tail of her own climax, his cock throbbing into her until it had nothing more to give, his throat howling her name until it had no more to give. 

Spent, he rolled over to lie on his back, panting wordlessly beside her as he slowly came back to himself. After a time, she turned toward him, resting her chin on her palm and wearing the smallest smirk as her eyes sparkled. 

“Oh, Perrin,” she said lightly, her other hand tracing across his broad chest, “you are so good at giving me exactly what I want.” 

The words came crashing down on him, bringing him harshly back to reality. She had won again, had controlled him again, even as he held her down and fucked her. _Burn her!_

He awoke with a start. Lan was still keeping watch, almost invisible against the full dark of the night surrounding him. Moiraine slept peacefully beside him. She lay on her back now, her bosom rising and falling in the rhythm of deep sleep. He blushed at the mere sight of her now. The powerful rush of the dream still gripping him, he felt as if he had really known her in that way. He shook his head, rolled over, away from her, and tried to fall back asleep. 

In the morning, they followed their usual routine, rising with the sun, putting blankets back in saddlebags, distributing a quick breakfast before getting back on the road. But before they mounted their horses, Moiraine came over to check on Perrin, and he fought the flush he could feel rising in his cheeks as she stepped close to him. 

“How were your dreams, Perrin?” she asked quietly but conversationally. He jolted; could she know? No, there was no way she could know. Was there?! Her eyes bored into his like she knew. But surely she was just checking on the Wolf Dreams, as they had discussed before. 

“Just fine, Moiraine,” he replied, and he was proud that he only stuttered a little. “Nothing out of the ordinary.” 

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” she repeated to herself, as if the words could be interpreted multiple ways. She gripped his wrist, and he had the feeling right before she had Healed him before, as if he were being weighed, measured, and evaluated, but no icy dunk of Healing followed. He chose not to fret about it. She seemed satisfied at last, anyway, and walked away with a nod. He let out the breath he had been holding. 

*** 

Moiraine was glad--relieved-- to hear that there was nothing unusual in Perrin’s dreams, and Delving had revealed no scratches down his back. As an experiment, she had left her own dreams unshielded the night before to see if she could get any hint of what happened in the blacksmith’s, but she feared that her own dreams had invaded his instead. It had not been a successful experiment and she did not wish to risk repeating it. Well. Parts of it, perhaps. But only in the privacy of her own carefully-guarded dreams, from now on. _Ta’veren_ , she thought, shaking her head and resigning herself to the undeniable pull of him. Perhaps she would repeat certain parts in her occasional waking thoughts as well. Long days in the saddle could get very monotonous, after all.


End file.
